


Fear

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Disorder, Child Abuse, Gen, Self-Destruction, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, also more character tags to be added soon don't worry, really heavy shit wow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin has lived in fear of his menacing father for most of his life, long ago having withdrawn into himself, his only solace being the books which he so dearly treasures.<br/>But all that may change when he meets Eren, a fiery rebel who may just be able to teach him to finally let go of his fear, and to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear

**Author's Note:**

> So uh, hey guys! This is my first fic for this fandom and this new account (I wanted a fresh start), and I'm overall pretty excited about it!  
> I feel like there just aren't enough fics that focus on Armin and how great of a character he is, so I wanted to tell a story about his finding strength and overcoming obstacles while simultaneously including my own experiences.  
> This story is going to be pretty triggering in general, so I suggest leaving now if self harm or suicide or abuse or anything of the sort bother you at all!!  
> 

A young, blond haired boy sits in the corner of the bookstore as the light of day begins to dissipate, the sun slowly sinking below the horizon, staining the clouds and landscape a breathtaking golden hue as it goes. The traffic outside grows from a excited chatter to a dull roar as many hurry home, returning from a day’s work to greet their families and eat dinner, among other things. The boy does not notice this, however, for he is far too immersed in the novel in which his nose is currently buried, the world around him seeming to have faded to a mere background chatter, like the sound of a television with the volume turned nearly all the way down.

His pale blue eyes move quickly across the page, scanning it with eagerness, wanting to absorb every speck of knowledge the book can possibly offer to him. He pauses every so often to turn the page of the lengthy tome, sometimes coughing ever so quietly as the turning of a page causes a small cloud of dust to form.

Dust. There’s so much of it in the bookstore which he currently sits, everything within seeming to be covered with a thin layer of it, excluding himself, of course. Even the old lady who sits behind the counter in the front of the store seems to be coated with it, the deep creases of her cheeks and seemingly ancient clothing simply blending in with the rest of his surroundings.

But the boy? He doesn’t seem to care, content the way he is to flip through a novel. He much prefers to be off in his own world of magic and adventure than in the physical reality in which his body resides, the one where life is hard and cruel and unfair and good ends are just about the furthest thing from common. He’s there at the bookstore nearly every day, in fact, as it’s his favorite place within the large city in which he resides. He’s there so often that the lady behind the counter recognizes him, greets him as he arrives at the store each afternoon following school, the cheerful clang of the bell suspended above the door announcing his entrance.

It is due to this familiarity that the woman now leans over the counter, calls to him and says, “Armin! It’s nearly eight! You had better head home!” The boys eyes widen with his realization of the time, knowing that’s he’s late, that’s he’s already missed dinner by nearly an hour. _‘Dad is going to kill me.’_ He thinks to himself as he stands, placing the book upon a random shelf and dashing from the store without so much as a word to the woman behind the counter. She shakes her head as she watches him go, muttering about ‘today’s youth’ and ‘the rudeness of young people’.

The boy sprints home, fast as his (relatively short) legs can carry him. His breath comes in short pants, the back of his throat burning and dry, for he’s not athletic and isn’t used to such physical exertion. Still, he pushes on, running as fast as he can, knowing that he cannot stop by any means. A small voice in his mind screams at him to stop, for his chest hurts something awful, aching terribly and painfully, and he feels as if he may pass out from lack of oxygen, but he tries to ignore it, to tune it out. His neighborhood passes by him as he runs, faces and locations blurring in his rush to return home. The only things he can hear are his labored breathing, and the dull thump of his shoes as they come into contact with the pavement. The rest, the shrill honking of horns, the barking of dogs and gentle chatter of those surrounding him, they all seem to vanish in his rush. It’s thirteen blocks from the bookstore to Armin’s home, and he gets there in exactly six minutes and twenty three seconds, throwing open the rusted metal door that is the entrance to his humble abode, only stopping to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm once he is inside without issue.

It is only then that Armin dares glance up at the scene before him. Armin’s father sits at a set dinner table, arms crossed, a stern look upon his face.

 

* * *

Armin Arlert is fourteen years old, fifteen within a few months. He lives alone with his father, his mother having died at an early age. He has no friends, finding solace and companionship only within his beloved books.

* * *

Armin’s father clears his throat loudly. Armin holds his breath, his breath caught within his throat, absolutely frozen with fear. He simply gapes.

“Where have you been, you piece of shit?” His father asks, speaking angrily, loudly, nearly on the verge of yelling. Armin trips over his words as he tries to form them, tries to formulate an adequate explanation as to why he’s missed dinner.

“I-I was at the bookstore.” He winces, already knowing he’s said the wrong thing. Armin’s father raises his hand, bringing it down hard against Armin’s cheek. The force of the blow overwhelms Armin’s small frame, and he’s knocked backwards, slamming against the metal door painfully. He makes a strangled noise in reaction to the pain, feeling the already forming bruise on his cheek throb, but he doesn’t dare reach up and touch it. His father leans in, forcing Armin to meet his gaze, and Armin can see his eyes, cold and cruel and full of hate and anger. He hopes his own eyes never look like that.

“You better not be late for dinner again, brat,” he spits. Armin nods in earnest, hoping that the worst is over.

“I-I’m sorry. I won’t.” With that, Armin dashes up the stairs to his bedroom, slamming the door and locking it behind him. He reaches up to touch his cheek, lightly, and winces in pain as the pads of his fingers brush against his skin. The bruise is going to be difficult to conceal, glaringly obvious compared to the pale bruises upon his extremities, easily hidden by clothing. Even the large one upon his chest is hidden by his shirt, and though it pains him quite greatly whenever he moves, he’s since gotten used to it. He’s grown quite accustomed to (what he thinks are) broken ribs.

Armin grabs a book off the floor, an informative text on vegetation in the rainforest, and as he sits on his bed and flips it open, a single tear rolls down his cheek. He wipes it away with his sleeve, delving deeper into the book within his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it was so short! There's definitely more to come, and it'll be longer too!! ;;


End file.
